The Crasieve
by Elliot Pole
Summary: Mundungus Fletcher got a Crasieve from some nuns and sold it to Borgin and Burkes. The Crasieve is supposed to be like the Pensieve, only backward...it shows you the future. A rich man buys it, and goes to the future with his seven-year-old daughter.
1. The Loot of Mundungus Fletcher

The Loot of Mundungus Fletcher

**The Crasieve**

**Chapter One: The Loot of Mundungus Fletcher**

Mundungus Fletcher was ambling down Knockturn Alley. He had collected a lot of strange objects from a nunnery in which two witches were sent by their fathers so that they couldn't marry. He had Apparated into the building hoping to find some sacred objects to hex, when he saw the two witches. Kimberly Wailstocking and Georgia Vilestorm were so happy to meet a man of their kind that they didn't mind giving him almost their whole treasure of magical pots, glass balls, sporks, and juniper logs. (They also delivered him a couple of kisses while hidden in a closet away from the other Sisters.) Mundungus went away happily; he could drown himself in alcohol after he had sold these.

There was one really odd pot the two nuns have given him. It had a long neck with two handles. There were decorations on it—little rainbows and fluffy clouds. Mundungus tried to refuse to take it, but the nuns had insisted. He decided he would chunk it after selling the rest at Borgin & Burkes.

Borgin received him with a ghastly grin. "You've got a loot, Mundungus? Excellent!"

"Yeh, two unlucky nuns gave the 'ole lot to me."

"Nuns? How could you find useful stuff with them?"

"Them two were witches, they were. Only way to keep them from marrying, I s'pose. But they were overglad to get rid of this junk."

Borgin took the sack from Mundungus and sorted through it. "Whoa, an unbreakable pot. Might be useful. A shrinking cauldron—that will sell very well with the Wendron Witches. A Jiftian spork…whoever eats it with it will have all the knives in the house raining down on them. I'd like to see a Muggle use one—the world could do with less of _them. _And, ah, what's this—" Borgin's face blanched. He was holding the vaselike pot. "Where did you find this, Mundungus?"

"Same place. It was with the nuns. I was going to chunk it."

"Chunk a Crasieve, Mundungus, are you nuts? This is worth more than half the store."

"What's a Crasieve?" asked Mundungus, blankly.

"It's better that you don't know, especially since you almost threw it out."

Borgin paid Mundungus well for the loot; he wouldn't have to get any more for a while yet.

Shaking his head, Borgin put the Crasieve in a glass vase. He was tempted to use it himself, but perhaps on a holiday. Some recent alumni from Durmstrang were coming to buy a cursed watch, and he had to be ready for them.

After the alumni left, a cobbler who sold shoes that ate people's toes came in. At once his eyes riveted to the Crasieve, and they bulged. Borgin was in the back, and the cobbler contemplated smashing the glass with a Fragility spell, but thought Borgin might come before he managed it. When no Borgin had shown his face after five minutes, the cobbler tried the spell anyway. It didn't work; the glass stayed firm. Cursing, the cobbler turned to go, but at that moment Borgin appeared.

"Tialatin, what did you just do?"

The cobbler gulped. "Nothing. I wanted to buy acidic leather, but since you didn't show, I thought I'd leave.."

"You used a Fragility spell."

"No, I didn't," the cobbler lied, feebly.

"Give me your wand."

"But Borgin—"

"Do it."

The cobbler reluctantly handed his wand over.

"_Prior Incantato!" _Borgin said, touching his own wand to the cobbler's. A shadow of the Fragility spell emerged, though a very feeble one.

"Aha!" exclaimed Borgin. "You are henceforth banned from the shop, until further notice. Until the Crasieve is sold, that is. Don't try coming here again."

"But, Borgin, where will I get Armenian bison leather?"

"Oh, I'm sure there's some other place that sells it. If there isn't, you'll have to do without. Now, shoo."

The cobbler took back his wand, gave Borgin a grimace, and exited the shop. Borgin had no trouble with the Crasieve until four days later.

A burly man with a bulky mustache came in on that day He looked like someone it'd be unwise to refuse anything. His eyes at once turned to the Crasieve, and he knew he'd have to have it, no matter the price.

He approached Borgin, who was polishing a shrunken head. "I'd like to buy the Crasieve," the man said, calmly.

Borgin glanced at the man, then said, "Not for sale," turning back to the shrunken head.

The man shook his head in disbelief. "I don't think you heard me right," he said, menacingly. "I will not leave this shop until the Crasieve is in my hands."

"Oh, a tough customer, aren't you?" asked Borgin. "Well, I'll have you know that I won't take less than sixteen thousand Galleons for it."

"That's _outrageous, _Borgin! You could buy a country for that price! Money doesn't grow on broomsticks, you know."

"No sixteen thousand Galleons, no Crasieve."

The man with the mustache looked like he'd pummel Borgin into a pulp. But just as he raised his fists to strike, Borgin pulled out his wand and shouted, _"Furunculus!"_

Myriad boils sprouted on the man's face. He ran out of the shop in fury, with Borgin calling behind him, "You're lucky I didn't use the Cruciatus Curse on you!"

The man spread the word about what would happen to people who tried to take the Crasieve by force. Only an extremely wealthy person would be relieving it from Borgin's hands. And that is exactly what happened three months later.

Mr. Saltsworthy was a pure-blood who hated Muggles and Mudbloods, but was not a Death Eater. There was a rumor that in his youth he had a crush on a girl named Dolores Umbridge, but she had turned him down. Now she supposedly regretted it, for he was rich and she only worked at the Ministry. Some rumors were floating around that she had begged him to take her back, but he refused. Bertha Jorkins in the Department of Magical Sports and Games started some of these rumors, but there seemed to be some veracity in them.

Borgin was surprised to see Mr. Saltsworthy come in his meagre shop. People with as much money to their names as he had usually went to Porkston Alley, where the cheapest thing was a Sugar Quill for thirteen Galleons. It was said that Porkston Alley didn't know what a Sickle was, let alone a Knut.

"I heard you have a Crasieve," said Mr. Saltsworthy, standing in an expensive tuxedo which was worth more than all of the merchandise in Knockturn Alley put together. "I need one for my collection."

Borgin wasn't fooled. No one would merely want a Crasieve to add to their "collection." Mr. Saltsworthy obviously wanted to visit the future. Or not "visit," for you can't actually influence the future through a Crasieve, as you would influence France if you visited it. "Experience" would be a more apt word.

For the Crasieve is in some ways the opposite of a Pensieve. It will allow you to find out what is to come, but you can only go as far as the death date of the youngest person who is using it at the time. Basically, if you were born in 1899, and you will die in 1954, going alone means you have no chance to experience any year after 1954. But if you go with someone younger…say an infant born in 1938, you can travel up to _that _person's death year, say 2001. The trick is to find someone as young as possible and persuade them to go with you, if you want to go far. You cannot force them, because the Crasieve won't take them with you; persuasion is the only choice.

"Name your price," Mr. Saltsworthy said.

"Nineteen thousand Galleons," replied Borgin.

"Hmmm…I heard it was sixteen thousand."

"If you don't have nineteen thousand, you can leave."

"No, no, I'll take it. It's just—"

"You wanted to get it as cheap as possible? You make more money in a day than I do in a year. Nineteen it atands."

Mr. Saltsworthy tried to bargain with Borgin to diminish the price, but to no avail. At last he sighed, and said, "Fine, nineteen thousand." He started to give Borgin a paper which would allow him to take the amount out of Saltsworthy's vault at Gringott's, but Borgin refused.

"Must have physical money or no sale."

Mr. Saltsworthy asked if Borgin would accept a down payment. Borgin shook his head in dissention. Finally, Mr. Saltsworthy pulled a money back off his back and started dishing out Galleons. Though the bag was obviously too small to hold nineteen thousand, it kept refilling as soon as it was empty. Some other customers entered the shop and heard Saltsworthy muttering, "7, 894…7,895…7,896…" They stared at the mountain of money piling on Borgin's desk, and contrived to steal some of it, but when they touched it, their hands burned as if they had stuck it in searing flames. They ran out of the shop in agony, and Saltsworthy lost his count.

"Where was I?"

"Three-thousand, four-hundred twelve," Borgin said slyly.

"You lie, you cheat! I was somewhere around eight thousand, I think…"

Saltsworthy resumed counting. It took four hours for him to count out nineteenth thousand Galleons. Borgin cast a quick spell on the lot to make certain none of it was leprechaun gold. Finally, the deal was made. Borgin removed the glass from the Crasieve and handed the precious object to Saltsworthy, who walked out, more joyous than he had been since the day he found out he would never have to worry about money.


	2. Operating the Crasieve

The Crasieve

**The Crasieve**

**Chapter Two: Operating the Crasieve**

Mr. Saltsworthy carried his precious new purchase outside Borgin & Burkes, then Disapparated to his manor in Wales.

His butler answered the door and let him in, leading him to a room full of frog spawn. Mr. Saltworthy's wealth came from a few potions he had invented, and frog spawn was one of his staple ingredients. All of the paintings in the house showed witches or wizards standing over cauldrons with vials or flasks of myriad different poisons and remedies. When Saltsworthy had attended Hogwarts thirty years ago, Horace Slughorn had been his favorite teacher, even though Saltsworthy was in Hufflepuff, not Slytherin. He sometimes sent Slughorn expensive watches in gratitude for a wonderful experience at school.

"Walter, when will Miss Lydia arrive?"

"Lydia?" asked the butler.

"Yes. I've been expecting her."

"I will check the datebook, sir."

Walter went away for a bit, and returned a few moments later. "It seems that Maid Miriam received an owl post this afternoon, saying that Lydia's arrival will be delayed until three days from now."

'Three days! But, Merlin help me, how can I wait that long?"

"Is Lydia's presence so urgent?"

Saltsworthy started to say that it was, but refrained. If Lydia's mother didn't want the girl to visit him on the appointed day, she would have her reasons. He'd just have to wait a little longer…

He gave Walter instructions to leave him be for a couple of hours before serving dinner. He had to do some research. Leaving the frog spawn room, he went into his library, full of thousands and thousands of books, many of which he never would read. Saltsworthy only bothered opening the ones that dealt with potions, though he had books on complicated hexes, books on how to create arrows that could make an animal of a different species fall in love with you, volumes with titles like _Why Purple is Not Red, When Rainbows Explode, Evidence That Muggles Are Morons, _etc. Many of these books he just had for show; for a man cannot truly call himself wealthy without a bountiful library.

But now he was looking for a book that had nothing at all to do with Potions. _How to Work the Crasieve _had to be here somewhere. He scanned the shelves for the title. Several rows yielded him nothing. Almost wishing he didn't have such a huge library, he continued to search for half an hour, then gave up. He could just go buy a copy from the bookstore on Porkston Alley. Saltsworthy made a mental note to hire a librarian in the future. Then he left the library and approached the front door, but Walter halted him there.

"Where are you going?"

"To Porkston Alley."

"But it's seven o' clock, sir!"

"So? The shops don't close till late."

Walter was clearly agitated. For weeks now he had been worried that someone would assassinate Mr. Saltsworthy. But he could say nothing to delay the millionaire; Saltsworthy would have his way.

Saltsworthy Disapparated to Porkston Alley. The sun was scintillating in the sky, nearly blinding Saltsworthy on the spot where he had landed. Undaunted, he cast a spell to make his eyes oblivious to the sun's rays. He ambled pleasantly toward the bookstore. Some people stopped in the street to gaze at his expensive saffron robes. He ignored them. Though everyone on Porkston Alley had to be swimming in Galleons if they wanted to buy anything, there were always the peddlers and mendicants who thought the rich might be generous enough to toss them a few Sickles or Knuts…though of course the shopkeepers did not think in Sickles or Knuts. Finally, Saltsworthy arrived in his destination, and went inside.

Tursillon & Emery was the largest bookstore in London. They even sold Muggle novels, though no one who shopped there would purchase _anything _written by a Muggle. It was rumored that Holly Emery, the female founder of the store, spent her spare time reading these profane fictions and nothing else. If you wanted nonfiction, you had to speak to Elijah Tursillon, the male founder. He would often offer you cherry pie if you bought something; or on a particular good business day, he'd give you a slice of lemon meringue.

Saltsworthy entered tentatively. Holly Emery was in the front, and she spotted him, though he tried to duck away. "Hey, Saltsworthy, you ought to try this book called _A Tree Grows in Brooklyn _by Betty Smith! It's about a little girl who grows up in Brooklyn, New York in the second decade of the twentieth century, and—"

"Is she a Muggle?"

"Well, yes, but—"

"I don't read books where Muggles are the main characters. Give me something about Araminta Meliflua's effort to make Muggle-hunting legal, and I'll be happy."

Holly Emery looked very put-out. "I'll go find Tursillon."

Saltsworthy waited patiently, his eyes scanning the titles of books on shelves in front of him: _Mad Panda in Croganger's Menagerie, The Uncommon Spells That Your Stupid Mother Forgot to Teach You, _and _Muggles Who Eat Whatchamacallits Are Guaranteed to Give Birth to Witches or Wizard (Evidence Inside) _ He gave up after the last one; anything that will result in more Mudbloods made him gag.

Finally, Elijah Tursillon made his appearance. His hair had once been jet-black, but it was now starting to become gray. The eyes were brown and full of knowledge, and as he walked he seemed to have duck feet. His robes were white, a color Saltsworthy despised but which he had to bear, for Tursillon refused to don robes of any other hue.

"Hello, Saltsworthy," said Tursillon, amiably. "It's only been a week since you've dropped in here. We just got _Potions of Near-Death _by Wilbur Putnam on Tuesday; would you like to take a gander at it?"

"No, Tursillon. I've come for one book and one book only: _How to Work the Crasieve."._

"Oh, you've bought Borgin's treasure, have you? How much did it cost?"

"Nineteen thousand."

Tursillon whistled. "It takes us about a year and a half to make that much. Well, I'll go see if I can find the book; we've moved things around a lot. Holly tells me that Muggles have a more efficient way of stocking books; I think she called it the Stewie Crucible system or something."

Looking at the obvious displeasure on Saltworthy's face at the mention that Muggles could do anything better than wizards, Tursillon turned to search for the book. The Summoning Charm wouldn't work because it could not call books from the shelves with titles that were more than three words long. Why this was, no one had figured out. But it meant that most books had to searched for the hard way.

Half an hour later, Tursillon reappeared. "I finally found it, and I think it's the last one we had. It was alone on the shelf, anyway."

Saltswrothy paid him and was ready to say goodbye, when something on a nearby shelf caught his eye. "What is this?" he asked, holding up a book showing a woman with a face like a toad and wearing a pink bow on her head, as well as a pink cardigan, on the front cover.

"That's the biography of Dolores Jane Umbridge, sir," said Tursillon.

"Have you read it?"

"I skimmed it. It's pretty tedious, telling of her time as High Inquisitor of Hogwarts and when You-Know-Who ruled the Ministry with Pius Thicknesse under the Imperius Curse. It also tells of her struggle to get myriad anti-half-breed laws passed; she hates all part-humans."

"Hmmm. I think I'll take it, too."

He paid for the second book and left. When he got home, he ate a hurried dinner under the careful eye of Walter, then rushed into his library. Saltsworthy put the Umbridge biography away somewhere; chances were high that he'd never find it again. Then he sat at a table and propped open the other book he had so recently purchased.

Saltsworthy read all night, and ignored Walter when the latter came in to inform him that it might be time to get some rest. But Saltsworthy wanted to use the Crasieve _immediately_ upon young Lydia's arrival. It felt like it would kill him to wait one minute longer. Furthermore, he wished to make sure there was nothing that could go wrong; that he'd be able to return with no trouble at all, if the Crasieve worked like the rumors said it would. The author of the book assured the reader that he had used the Crasieve many times, and he knew all the quirks and everything that could go haywire was known to him. In detailed chapters he explained exactly what must be done, to visit the future and come back properly. Then there were chapters about warnings. Some of these Saltsworthy found ludicrous—"You must not see a black cat for a full twenty-four hours before using the Crasieve"; "eating Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans within five hours before use will result in you splinching yourself, which is hardly a condition in which to enjoy the future," etc. But one Saltsworthy decided to be extremely cautious about: it said that "if a jinx is cast in a room which a Crasieve is in, the Crasieve will absorb it and the next person who uses the Crasieve will be inflicted by the effect of the jinx, and the symptoms that result from it will be present in your ephemeral state in the future." He would take extra precautions to make sure this didn't happen.

Walter saw him still reading in the morning, and convinced Maid Miriam to persuade Saltsworthy that he really must rest. Saltsworthy reluctantly went to his bedroom, sleeping till three. He woke up, fully refreshed, and composed a letter to Lydia's mother, saying that her daughter must stay away from black cats and not eat any Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans between now and her arrival. Walter posted it with their owl, and Saltswrothy returned to the library, which occupied him until midnight. On the third day he only read until one p.m., when he finished the book. He then started grinding a bicorn horn and a crup's tail, as well as niffler's intestines, to a soft powder, as the book directed. Though the neck of the Crasieve was as thin as a bottle's, the ingredients which were necessary for its effects could be liquefied and fitted in there with a funnel. Saltsworthy just had to be careful that everything was ready.

Miss Lydia appeared at eleven-thirty the following morning. Walter met her at the furnace, with a grimace. She didn't feel safe till Maid Miriam showed up and led her to her room. Neither she nor her mother knew what Saltsworthy had planned. If they did, it is doubtful Lydia's mother would've let her come. But the only way Lydia would be able to attend Hogwarts in four years' time would be if Saltsworthy paid for it, and Lydia's mother did owe Lydia's existence to Saltsworthy for being her sire.

Walter hurried to inform Saltsworthy of Lydia's arrival. At first the wealthy man didn't hear him; he was concentrating hard on the Crasieve, making sure the liquid inside was the exact shade the book had shown it should be in an illustration.

"Sir, sir, can you hear me?"

Saltsworthy turned to him, distracted.

"What?"

"I just thought I'd make you aware that your daughter's here."


	3. 2073

The Crasieve

**The Crasieve**

**Chapter Three: 2073**

"Lydia!" Saltsworthy exclaimed, entering her room.

"Dad!" she shouted, with equal enthusiasm, rushing to hug him. They had not seen each other in two years, though Saltsworthy always sent Christmas presents. She enjoyed seeing him, and studies have shown that girls more often than not prefer their fathers to their mothers, whereas boys are in favor of the female parent.

They pulled out of their hug, and Saltsworthy surveyed her with his eyes. She was seven now, with curly yellow hair and red cheeks. She had on a frilly dress, the kind that irritated him in girls when he was her age, though that time had long passed.

"So, how's my pumpkin?"

"Really great, Dad! I'm so glad you invited me to come!"

"Of course, my darling, of course. Listen, I'd like you down in the room with frog spawn—I'll take you there now."

"Okay, but I think I could use a bath first. Floo Power doesn't go great with my hair."

Saltsworthy couldn't stop himself from thinking that she sounded just like her mother when she said that. "Well, dear, go ahead, but please make it quick. I've got a surprise for you, and I don't like delaying surprises."

"Oh, really, a surprise? For me?" Lydia squealed.

"Certainly. Now, I'll send Miriam up to escort you to the bath, and once you have finished she'll take you to the room with frog spawn."

Miriam brought Lydia to Saltsworthy half an hour later. After the maid had gone, Saltsworthy smiled at Lydia.

"Where's my surprise?" Lydia asked, seeing nothing but jars of frog spawn all about the room.

"Sit over there," Saltsworthy said, pointing to a chintz chair.

Lydia obeyed, her eyes still roving over the room for something gaudy and expensive.

Saltsworthy brought her a glass of a milky-white liquid. "Drink this, then close your eyes. When I tell you to open them, your surprise will be ready."

Lydia drank the beverage in one gulp; it was very sweet. Then she shut her eyes, waiting.

Her father drank a similar liquid from a different glass. Then he muttered a few words under his breath, low enough so that Lydia could not hear them, for it might cause her to open her eyes and think that he wasn't getting her a surprise after all. (She had to remain in the room for this to work.) Once he finished muttering the sacred words, the Crasieve, propped upright on a table in the middle of the room, glowed a bright orange. Then there was a flash of purple light, and the room with frog spawn vanished.

Instead they were sitting in a room with a circular window. Green wallpaper with candy canes covered the walls. "Lydia, you can open your eyes now," Saltsworthy said.

His daughter did so, and her pupils were wide with astonishment. "Did we just Apparate, Dad, or is this some other form of magic."

"It is the latter," her father replied. When she looked puzzled, he added, "It's another form of magic. If it had been Side-Along Apparition, we would've had to have been touching."

Lydia looked at the candy canes on the wallpaper. She had had candy canes before (even some that bit your tongue while you tried to eat them) but some of these had blue stripes instead of red, and some a really strange color midway between yellow and orange. Odder stiller were the ones with two curved ends, instead of one curved and one straight.

There were no tables—the Crasieve sat on the floor where the table it had stood on should've been. Lydia ignored the Crasieve; as far as she was concerned, it was no more than an ordinary vase. But she walked over to the window and peered out. For a second she looked incredulous, but then she turned back to her father, her eyes dark.

"You lied to me. We must've Apparated, because this is not the same building we were in."

Saltsworthy had perceived that this might be so. It would be impossible for his manor to still exist on the day Lydia died. That's when it was now—the penultimate day of her life. He had chosen to come to this day so that he could have twenty-four days in the future. If he failed to reach the Crasieve before the moment the Lydia in this year (whenever it was) perished, they'd both be stuck here.

He came to look out the window too. What he saw made him gasp: he was in a huge building, and from the outside it looked like a castle. But what startled him most was that the edifice was made of ashes—and they were held together like solids. From the principles Saltsworthy knew about ashes, this was impossible, even with magic. Unless of course, things had changed since his day.

Then he turned to the door, and he screamed. Up to this moment, he had not looked at the door; he had sat with his back to it. But now it was in clear view, and what he saw so appalled him that he almost wanted to crack the Crasieve into a million pieces. On the door was the face of an old man, being chewed by a tarantula the size of a kitten. It appeared as though the man had got his head stuck in the door, and the rest of his body would be found on the other side.

Lydia was more puzzled than ever. Her father had desired to give her a surprise, yet here he was, screaming at what he wanted to show her. She had not yet looked at the door, but when she turned to it, she let out a shrill yell that sounded like a banshee.

'WHO IN BLAZES IS SCREAMING AND HOLLERING?" shouted the old man, whose eyes had just become travelers in the spiders digestive system.

"It was I, Ephister Saltsworthy, and my daughter Lydia. We have come from the past."

"THE PAST?" shouted the man, whose ears were being nibbled on at that moment.

"Yes."

"WHEN IN THE PAST?"

"2001." Saltsworthy gave an inaudible gasp. He had no idea why he was telling the truth; he certainly did not mean to.

"YOU JUST JUMPED SEVENTY-TWO YEARS?"

"I suppose so," said Saltsworthy.

"BY CRASIEVE?"

"Indeed."

"I MUST ALERT THE—" but now his ears and nose were consumed, and the spider was commencing on his mouth.

Lydia was backing against the wall in revulsion. She wanted to scream for help, but wasn't her father here to protect her against anything that might cause harm? And what did she care about the man who was being consumed by the giant spider? He was no relation to her; she had never met him before. Yet she couldn't help thinking that no person deserved to go like that. Consumed by fear, she failed to hear a word Saltsworthy said to the man, so she had no idea that they were in the future.

Three minutes later, the spider had completely eaten the old man's head. There was a hole in the door, and Saltsworthy saw the bloody neck that had belonged to the man protruding from it. But the spider's many eyes were fixed on Saltsworthy now. It was scrurrying down the door as fast as it could, but—

"_Incendio!" _Saltsworthy shouted, setting the door on fire with his wand. He was surprised by the speed of his spell. In no time at all, a mere five seconds, the entire door was engulfed in flame. Then it began to spread to the wallpaper—it was moving too quickly…

"_Aguamenti!" _he said, brandishing his wand in an upward motion. No sooner had he said it than the fire was gone, but the room was flooding. Lydia screamed; the water had reached her midriff. Saltsworthy waded towards her. It was coming up fast…just below her neck now…

Lydia's father reached her just as she fell beneath the waves. She was unconscious. Saltsworthy was worried, not so much for Lydia's sake but for the fact that if he returned to the past with her dead, her mother would ensure he got sent to Azkaban…

He couldn't stand anymore; the water continued to rise. Saltsworthy kicked his legs hard so that he could stay aloft, hoping that Lydia would recover. Then he held his wand high, muttered the word _"Emptescu!" _and felt the water drain rapidly…so rapidly in fact that he fell crashing on the floor. Thankfully, he broke Lydia's fall, though there was no one to break _his._

His back hurt as if had been ripped open. He tried to ignore it as he gazed around the room. The Crasieve was washed over to a corner, undamaged. There was a hole where the door had been, and the wallpaper had scorch marks. The old man's body must've been consumed by the flames. Saltsworthy shuddered at the thought.

Just then, a pack of witches and wizards with red robes (except for the sleeves, which were black) entered the room. Some of them grabbed Lydia, and the others attended to Saltsworthy. He could not protest, for his back ached so terribly that they could've kidnapped his daughter and he wouldn't have paid any attention to it until he was healed.

It only took five minutes for every wound he had received from the fall to be healed. He couldn't believe it, but he forcefully took Lydia away from the witches surrounding her. She didn't complain; having the witches examine her made her feel like an animal in the zoo.

"What did you think you are doing with my daughter?" Saltsworthy demanded.

No one spoke for a moment. Then most of the congregation stepped back to let one witch step forward. She was paler than the others, as if she had never been in the sun in her entire life.

"Easy, Jouch, we were just trying to heal her wounds."

"I saw one of you looking at her in an inappropriate place."

"What may be inappropriate to you may not be inappropriate to us, Jouch," the woman said, politely.

"Who are you, anyway?"

"We are the Crasieve Meeting Sqaud. Whenever you travel to the future by Crasieve, we come to greet you and make sure you have a safe trip."

"I never heard of it."

"Well, it was invented in 2050, and I presume you came here from before that time, Jouch?"

"Yes, 2001." Again, Saltsworthy was astonished that he was telling the truth. He didn't trust these people, not after seeing them staring at his daughter's—he didn't want to think about it.

"Ah, so far, Jouch? And I'm sure the dear little one was brought here so that you could go as far as possible. She dies soon, I reckon?"

"Yes, tomorrow."

Now Lydia looked with fear in her father's face. Did he just say that she'd die next day? And what did the lady mean by saying that the organization she belonged to was created in 2050? It was only the beginning of the twenty-first century…

"Pity, pity. Pity that this girl will never grow up knowing what divine love is, isn't is, girls?"

The other witches nodded. The wizards also gave each other some sign of assent.

"What do you mean by 'divine love'?" Saltsworthy asked.

"Oh, it's something people in your time wouldn't understand, Jouch."

Again Lydia was confused. What did the lady mean by "your time"?

"Why do you call me 'Jouch'?"

"That is our form of the word 'sir.' Y'nool is our 'ma'am.'"

Saltsworthy looked at the door beyond the witch who answered his questions. "My spells seem more powerful here. A simple fire spell I cast to kill a spider erupted into a devouring flame. The not-so-puissant water spell I cast caused a flood. What on Earth is going on here?"

"That is the way of this time. Your spells are the same as ours, but with much greater results. Bigger is always better, Jouch."

"I disagree. My daughter and I could've been seriously injured. In fact, I believe I was…until these Healers fixed me. They are Healers, aren't they?"

"These are the Mute Healers. I am the only present in this room, besides you and your daughter, who can speak."

"Why do you have Mute Healers? Are there any that _can _speak? Excluding you that is?" Saltsworthy queried.

She smiled at him. "I am not a Healer. I am a Voice. Healing is such a deep art, so complex, that all Healers are forced to remain silent for the rest of their lives the moment they take the Hippocratic Oath. A Voice, like myself, travels with them so that they can communicate with their patients. And in case you are wondering, hospitals have been dispensed with."

"What—why?"

"We have no more use for them. Now that Healers give up their right to speak, they know how to mend people in the blink of an eye, to use an old expression.'

"Amazing," Saltsworthy said. But then he caught one of the witches leering at his daughter. He pulled out his wand to cast a spell.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you, Jouch," the Voice said. "Spells don't work on Mute Healers; they rebound back on their casters."

And then Saltsworthy thought of something that hadn't entered his brain until now. "I was under the impression that the Crasieve was like a Pensieve that took you forward in time. But in the Pensieve people in the past can't see or hear you. How come we are visible and audible here?"

Lydia was beginning to comprehend. They were in the _future! _

"That is because this has not happened yet," said the Voice. "But it will happen, exactly as it is happening now. You can influence the future, but not the past. The past is buried; impossible to alter. The future begs to be changed."

"But if I go back to the past with knowledge of this future and don't like it, will I be able to stop it?"

"Only if you have the means of doing so. And there's something you will not be able to do. But, come, we must escort you to the hotel."

"And if I refuse to come?"

"We will take you by force." The Mute Healers surrounded him.

"I can Apparate."

"Not in Viccan's Cathedral, you can't. No, Jouch, you will come with us."

Saltsworthy didn't heed her, but attempted to Apparate anyway. When he opened his eyes, he saw that he hadn't moved an inch. As he couldn't do anything, he decided he must follow the Healers and the Voice-witch.

"You know, even had you been able to Apparate in Viccan's," continued the Voice, "you wouldn't have gone anywhere. When you Apparate, you have to know _where _you are going. But you don't know anyplace in the future; you only have the knowledge of the geography of 2001. Things have changed. For example, the country of Georgia disappeared completely off the map in 2009…war with the Russians, nasty business."

Saltsworthy followed the Healers silently. Some of the witches stared at Lydia, and he wished he could do something to stop it. He couldn't run back and try to hide somewhere in the Cathedral, because there were Healers behind him as well as in front. They walked for half an hour, then finally large oaken doors appeared. The Voice opened them, and the whole caravan stepped outside.

"Now we will Apparate, as a group," said the Voice. "You do not have to do anything, Jouch. Just let us manage."

Three of the witches grabbed Lydia before Saltsworthy could stop them. He tried to shout, but no noise came out. One of the Healers must've cast a Quieting Charm. All of them had wands out; Saltsworthy supposed they were highly skilled at nonverbal spells.

The scene about them vanished, and Saltsworthy found himself in a vestibule with a bellhop, the Voice, and seven of the Mute Healers, include the three that were still holding Lydia.

"Right," said the Voice, speaking to the bellhop, who didn't seem at all surprise to see her and the other people. "We need a room for one, pronto. I assume he will be staying just one night, but his visit might extend longer, and if so, we will help accordingly.

The bellhop nodded his head, pulled a key out from behind a desk, and escorted them to another room, then led them up a staircase. Three flights of stairs and one hallway later, he entered them into Room #325.

Everyone except the bellhop entered; he handed the key to the Voice. "There's a Murphy bed for your comfort," the Voice said, "as well as some magazines and a reading lamp. The hotel has a twenty-four hour library system; all you have to do is call for room service and a concierge will bring you any book you desire, or periodical, or whatever, as long as its in print. Dinner will be served promptly at 5:30 this evening, in the dining hall, which Bradley (that's the bellhop) will escort you to. Oh, and we will be taking this precious little strumpet you brought."

She pinched Lydia's cheeks.

"Oh no, you won't!" Saltsworthy shouted, making a lunge for his daughter. Two of the Healers cast nonverbal spells at him, and he was flung back, landing, thankfully, on a couch.

"We will, Jouch. It is rare for such a _sumptuous _piece of flesh to end up in our midst. We cannot _possibly _pass up the opportunity. As a character from Charles Dickens once said, 'Opportunity only knocks once.'"

Despite his distress, Saltsworthy couldn't help thinking of Holly Emery…hadn't she mentioned Charles Dickens on one of his trips to Porkston Alley? He was some dumb Muggle writer…but still, was it possible that the Voice was related to Holly? "Is there by chance a Holly Emery in your ancestry?"

"Yes, by golly, there is," said the Voice. "She is my great-grandmother, and she's still alive. The whole family is baffled by her longevity; she should've perished long ago…my grandmother did, her daughter."

Saltsworthy decided to use this moment to jinx the whole lot of them. _"Cowisalber!" _he shouted.

But just as the Voice had told him, the spell bounced off of the Healers and hit him. His arms bent backward, lifting his back, and he froze in that position.

"You are foolish, Jouch. But we have your daughter, and she will serve our pleasures. Farewell."

"NO, YOU DON'T!" Saltsworthy bellowed. "I WILL STOP YOU!"

But it was too late. The eight witches had left with his daughter, and he heard the sound of a key in a lock.

It took two hours for his spell to cease working. When it did, he ran to the door and turned the knob. It wouldn't budge.


End file.
